Page 2 of Sullied Saints

“Oh.” Of course, why would I expect he’d be in a rush to come back here?

Hell, I probably shouldn’t have been in such a rush. The truth is I never expected to be allowed back, much less so soon. But this place and the judgmental eye of everyone who knows what went down is still a heavenly reprieve from my apartment and too much of my own company. Not that this means I’m back for good—Tawill never said anything about that. Just today.

I’ll take what I can get. I’ve never been very good at keeping myself busy when there’s self-flagellation to be done.

Better that I’m here, potentially doing some good, or at least kept distracted.

I guess I don’t need to worry about facing Dirk for today, at least. The silver lining is somewhat bittersweet. I want to be near him, speak to him, to know he's okay. Justseehim, as he is, not how Cocooner had him, not the way he’s locked into my mind, all blood and plaster.

I know the meeting is inevitable anyway, his absence only stretching it out.

So, there's just everyone else left to face. I had come in at dawn, to avoid having to stare down an entire office floor of shocked faces. But I’d barely sat down at my desk before I was directed none too curtly to the interrogation room.

The Cocooner, though we know who she is now, is still at large. Needler is the only reason Dirk and I are both alive. And fortunately, or unfortunately, he’s also our best shot at catching Cocooner.

If he'll talk.

I step into the interrogation room.

Tristan lifts his head, and when he sees me, he doesn't seem surprised. One corner of his mouth tilts, white teeth glinting. He’d had them straightened in the two years between killing my husband and his next official kill as Needler. As well as growing his hair longer, losing the beard, and getting effectively buff, it was enough to fool the ones who’d thought him dead anyway. Even when he was right there, among us, the whole time. Hell, I even went on a few dates with ‘Seb’.

"Little Shadow," Tristan says in greeting.

I blanch at the use of the pet name, resisting a glance at the one-way glass. I can only hope Tawill isn’t here to hear that, but I know she almost definitely will watch the recording.

He's chained to the other side of the metal table. He’s had so many chances to hurt me, but maybe now, locked up, things are different. Maybe he’ll lash out like a caged animal. He’s not what you’d call predictable. Then again, we're not his type. His type is… specific.

I stay standing behind the other chair, staring at him. The bruise on his cheek is a faded yellow memory of the spot where the officer who reached him first clocked him. Tristan’s hands had been up, he wasn’t a threat, was even kneeling already. But Tregam’s force can be just that—forceful.

"Why won't you talk?" I ask.

"I will now."

My jaw tightens. "I mean to the others. Why not them?"

His head tilts. "You're the detective on my case."

"But you're caught now. The case is closed."

Spreading his hands as much as he can against the chains, Tristan concludes, "Well, you're not busy then, are you?"

I baulk at believing he's doing this for me so that they have to bring me back in. I sit down. Not because I feel up to this conversation, but because a sudden wave of exhaustion hits me. My hand starts to shake with the withdrawals, which are mercifully less and less every day. People always told me the first week was the hardest, but I could never get that far from the bottle before. I don’t feel like it’s gotten any easier, even though that which I crave also disgusts me. Keeping one hand under the table, I lean the other on it, meeting his eyes. "Why did you let yourself be caught?"

"What purpose did I have on the outside anymore?"

"Because of Cassandra, then?"

A shadow comes across his face at the mention of her name.

"Will you talk to me about her? Otherwise, I have no purpose here."

Tristan stares back at me. "For you to catch her? Or kill her?"

"It’s you that killed. Not us."

His shoulders ease just slightly. "Alright. I'll talk. How long have I been here?"

"About three weeks," I tell him, knowing it’s hard to keep track of time in the precinct’s holding cells. There are no windows.

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